Unlikely Replacement
by Glaphyra
Summary: - The Hatpin - Despite all its complications, Harriet feels much more like Amber's replacement husband than Amber's replacement mother. One-sided Harriet/Amber.


**Notes:** I've only seen Hatpin once – three nights ago, and I may have gotten some minor details wrong. But the strange almost-mother/daughter label they placed on Harriet and Amber made me uncomfortable and felt like a lie. Also, I cannot find a single piece of Hatpin fanfic on the internet. What?

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Don't sue.

It wasn't like Harriet just to sit. She was always doing something; sorting the fruit, tapping her foot, re-braiding her hair... But tonight simply breathing was enough.

She was sitting on one of the wooden crates, feeling the rough wooden slats under her skirt, in the relative dark. Before Amber, the fruit shop had never really felt dark. Or quiet. But now it seemed to stretch into every corner and into every nook and cranny. The folds in her skirt were pitch black, as were the spaces between her fingers. Perhaps it was because she'd stopped moving. But all her energy seemed to have seeped out of her. She'd gone back to the fruit shop, lit a candle and sat down, and now she couldn't get up.

Amber was gone.

She could still see Amber perched on the crate beside her, could still see her small frame kneeling delicately on the floor, could still see Amber's head resting on Harriet's thigh... Could still feel the warmth of the girl's cheek through the thin material of her skirt. But the nights were getting colder now, the chill soaking into the wood of the crate and deep into the pores of Harriet's skin. Her whole body ached. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding, that's all. A terrible misunderstanding. She heard, more than felt, her breath shake when she exhaled, and brought her hands up to cup her nose and mouth.

It wasn't like she hadn't said it herself, one night. When she'd realised she loved Amber. That Amber was filling all the crevices in the shop, and in her, some that she'd known about and some she hadn't. That Amber made her laugh more than ever. That when push came to shove, there was nothing she couldn't imagine doing to help Amber, to make her happy. And that had made Harriet short of breath.

Harriet wasn't in the habit of lying to herself. Almost everything in her world was simple: black and white, right and wrong. She knew she was attracted to Amber – had always known. Hadn't been particularly subtle about it. Had explained right at the start that she had no interest in men, and had encouraged Amber to avoid them herself. Had touched the girl at every opportunity, stroked her cheeks and hair, held her fragile body pressed tight against Harriet's curves. Practically forced the girl to move in with her. Been as blunt as she could without being explicit, as suggestive as she could without risking discomfort, touched as much as she dared without crossing any lines. Told Amber she was everyone Harriet needed. Meant it. God.

But love – love was entirely different. Harriet's feelings were never meant to stretch that far. Not while Amber was still obviously clueless to Harriet's affections. Not while Amber was still so enveloped in the search for Horace, and later, in the finding of justice for him. Harriet wouldn't – couldn't – distract Amber from that, and so Harriet couldn't have been _in love_ with her, could she? She hadn't even known Amber that long. Love would've been painful and impractical and unrequited, and there simply had to be some other explanation.

She'd thought: maybe the love was a maternal thing. After all, at sixteen years Amber's senior Harriet was old enough to be her mother, and Amber herself was barely more than a child if one tilted their head the right way. But the thought had made her immediately uncomfortable, and her discomfort had grown every time she rolled the thought around in her head, knowing it was at best a shallow excuse and at worst an outright lie. She had indeed been feeling quite maternal then, but not to Amber, she'd realised – to Horace. To a child she'd never even met, but somehow felt almost equal responsibility for. Like she really was, as Charles Makin had suggested, Amber's unlikely replacement for a husband.

They'd passed Charles again in court one day, Harriet's protective arm around Amber's shoulders, and he'd muttered – just loud enough for them to hear – "Pity your replacement can't replace your baby." Amber had immediately dismissed it as nonsense, but Harriet's arm had tightened ever-so-slightly and she'd fought to keep the blush from rising up her face. A part of her had wanted to punch Charles in the mouth. A part of her had been grateful he saw something everyone else seemed to miss, selfish and dangerous as that was. Harriet had chosen to ignore him, forged a path through the crowd and kept walking.

She'd decided to act on her feelings once the court case was finished. Give Amber a few days to recover, and then do or say something so overt that even Amber couldn't misinterpret it. Harriet hadn't known quite what, then, but she'd never had a problem being straightforward. Things would be fine. Amber probably wouldn't return her feelings, or at least not without a great deal of thought and soul-searching – despite the way she'd rest her head between Harriet's legs, despite the way her body fit Harriet's like the missing puzzle piece, despite how Harriet made her face light up like a thousand candles – but that was okay. At least Harriet would've tried.

But she'd never gotten the chance. They'd barely left court when Amber announced she'd be moving on. Was leaving. Had completed her business here.

Harriet had felt the disappointment all over her face. Was it selfish to convince Amber to stay? Surely she wouldn't get far in the outside world, homeless and alone and quite unqualified, with little more than the clothes on her back and the meagre amount of money in her pockets. She should stay. Harriet should tell her to stay.

Harriet had placed her hands on either side of Amber's face, about to insist on it, when Amber had thanked her – had thanked Harriet deeply, and called her 'something like a mother.'

The words had died in Harriet's throat.

On the outside, Harriet had smiled broadly and hadn't missed a beat. After all, what could she have said? "No, you don't," and kissed the girl? If Amber just saw her as a mother, then there wasn't anything she could do to change Amber's mind. Especially not when she felt like her body was being compressed by a boa constrictor. Especially not when she was surprisingly heartbroken. Especially not then.

So she'd let her go.

Harriet had no idea how long she'd been sitting there. The candle had almost burned down, so she summoned the willpower to pick it up and navigate the narrow staircase up to bed. God, the shop felt empty. She stripped off her clothes and climbed under the covers in her underthings, unable to keep from shivering anymore. Perhaps Amber would come back. Then again, perhaps Amber would die out there, and it would be all Harriet's fault. All Harriet's fault for falling inappropriately in love with her. All Harriet's fault for having no self control.

Everything would be better in the morning.

In the middle of the night, Harriet half-woke to Amber's fingers pressed between her legs and inside of her, and turned her sleep-riddled head to gasp into the pillow. She refused to open her eyes. Just concentrated on Amber's fingers, and worked with the fervour of the old Harriet towards desperately needed release.

In the morning when she woke she was alone.

The sun came up anyway.


End file.
